


Incandescent

by GonEwiththeWolveS



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Geralt has feelings, Geralt will be growly, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know how enhanced Geralt's senses are, I know no lore, Jaskier is not a morning person, Jaskier you will be whumped, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Monster of the Week, No lutes were harmed in the making of this fic, Post 1x06, So I'm just gonna pretend he's a tracking dog, What's new?, Yennefer is having none of their shit, Yes I am definitely making stuff up as I go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22583377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GonEwiththeWolveS/pseuds/GonEwiththeWolveS
Summary: Geralt runs into Jaskier after a hunt and very not eloquently tells him to leave town after he senses the presence of another monster.Jaskier (obviously) doesn't listen.Shit happens.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 73
Kudos: 737





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I decided to give this writing thing another try... we'll see how it goes.  
> Also I have no beta, so all mistakes are mine. Feel free to point them out or leave some constructive criticism. Go easy on me though, I don't usually write xd

Geralt dismounted his mare, taking the time to absently give her a pat in the neck in an old gesture of fondness as he tied her to the post outside the ran-down inn’s entrance. Roach nudged him in the shoulder in response, muzzle reaching down to push insistently at his hand. Likely looking for a treat, a learned habit from all the months (or is it years now?) of travelling with a certain bard in tow.

The other man had spoiled her, always prepared with a sugar cube in hand to bribe the mare with whenever she felt like being particularly ornery towards him. He suspected she’d started doing it on purpose, intelligent as she was. It had amused him at the time, but now it just served as a reminder of the glaringly obvious absence at his side.

Things were eerily quiet, travelling alone. Without noticing, he’d grown accustomed to the loud and larger-than-life like presence of the bard at his side, to the point where he now felt almost constant unease with it gone. It started to wear on him, and to make matters worse, the bouts of insomnia he’d once complained about to the other man in Rinde (what seemed like a lifetime ago) had returned with a vengeance.

He cut off that chain of thought, not wanting to revisit the other less than pleasant memories that the Djinn episode entailed. Memories of mountaintops that ringed with guilt and regret and put a hard to swallow lump on his throat.

With one last stroke to his mare’s mane, he brushed past her to head inside the inn’s tavern. He could hear the faintest sound of a melody being played from inside, muffled by raucous noises of laughter and off tune singing along by men who, judging from the slightly slurred voices, had probably drank a bit too much ale.

He put his cloak up, relying on the shadow the hood cast over his face to give him at least a modicum of anonymity. It was getting harder and harder to not be recognized wherever he went. For all his posturing and theatrical attitude, the bard had actually succeeded at making him somewhat famous. While the newfound fame had its benefits, it also proved to be a hardship in certain situations, especially when he’d prefer to keep his identity concealed.

He also would’ve preferred to camp out in the woods close by, but truth was he was long overdue for a decent bath (he could almost hear Jaskier’s disapproving remarks at his state in his head), plus the idea of a bed didn’t sound so terrible right now, with how tired he felt.

He had just finished off a kikimora that had been held up in a swamp a few miles away from the town and came to collect the reward from a thankful farmer whose cattle had been falling prey to it. The man hadn’t had much coin to offer Geralt and, judging from the humble cottage and his worn out clothes, whatever he had, he’d been saving up for a while, in hopes of convincing a passing-through Witcher of getting rid of his pest problem before he lost his livelihood altogether.

A look at the three children hiding behind the door, peaking their heads out to take a curious look at the strange Witcher who’d just dumped a kikimora’s head on their front yard, had Geralt sighing and taking only half of what he’d been offered. Giving a grunt in response to the farmer’s cries of gratitude, he’d ridden off to find someplace he could spend the night.

The coin he’d kept left him with just enough to buy himself a stay at the local inn. He’d move on the next morning, looking for another town where his services might be needed.

The unmistakable sound of a lute being played reached his ears as soon as he stepped inside the tavern, causing a sharp pang in his chest. He avoided looking at the origin of the sound, not wanting further memories of ridiculous bards and their even sillier songs slipping into his mind uninvited (also not wanting to be disappointed when he didn’t see ~~his~~ _the bard_ standing there). He scanned the bar looking for the innkeeper instead, finding him pouring ale into a couple of patrons’ mugs in a corner.

He walked over and dumped his coin bag in the counter unceremoniously, catching the innkeeper’s eyes as he asked from a room. The man shot him a curious look, but said nothing aside from directions to the room as he reached for its key and handed it over to Geralt, who grunted in thanks. He turned around as the other man scooped the coins up from the counter and pocketed them, intending on heading over to his room and putting the day behind him.

However, before he could make his way up to the upper floor, where the rooms were located, a sound made him pause. The bard had started on a different song, apparently new material because no one was making overly enthusiastic cheers of recognition or trying to sing along. And so, when the bard began singing, Geralt could hear his voice as clear as a bell.

_He knew that voice._

Sure enough, there stood Jaskier, doing his best to put on a show and apparently succeeding, from the looks of the coins littering the lute case by his feet. Finally laying eyes on him after almost a year of travelling alone was… disconcerting, to say the least.

For a moment, Geralt almost thought of heading over and glaring at the bard until he rambled out an excuse about Witchers and their nonexistent patience. He’d stuff his lute in its case dejectedly before dramatically announcing that they had to be on their way because ‘there were monsters to be slayed and blushing maidens to be rescued’.

But then he remembered.

Jaskier wouldn’t be happy to see him, he wouldn’t be eager to trail off after him. He’d most likely tell him to fuck off, if he was feeling daring.

He couldn’t stay here and face the bard, he had to leave. Geralt may not be completely devoid of emotion as myth led people to believe, but he sure as hell avoided it as best as he could. Emotion was a hindrance, affection was a needless burden.

He should have never allowed the bard to tag along in the first place, but the younger man had intrigued him. Not a lot of people would have such careless disregard for their own safety around Witchers (actually, no one he’d ever met before, Jaskier had been the first), or feel so bold as to tease one recklessly as he so often did (even if it did earn him a frequent smack upside the head).

The familiar sour tang of fear never permeated Jaskier’s sweet flowery scent ( _orange blossoms and chamomile_ ) in all the time they’d been together, at least never directed at him. It was… refreshing, though he’d never admit it to the other man.

However, just because Jaskier had been a welcomed change in his life, didn’t mean it was an allowed one. A Witcher’s life was not one for companions, be them of any kind. Being so attached to Roach was pushing a line to begin with, a human one was just outright tempting fate (even if Geralt didn’t believe in it). Humans were _so fragile._ It was a disaster waiting to happen.

It was why he’d never gone after the bard when they went their own ways, never tried to apologize for their parting words. Even if the younger man hadn’t deserved the cruel accusations he’d mindlessly spat out that day, it was better this way. He’d feel less inclined to seek Geralt out himself or Melitele forbid, return to his side.

This was better, _this was safer_.

He wouldn’t need to spend every waking moment looking out not only for himself but for the other man too, and for someone with such a low sense of self-preservation such as Jaskier, that was a feat all on itself.

The bard hadn’t noticed him yet, for which Geralt was thankful, since it gave him plenty of time to turn on his heels and get the hell out of that town (and avoid it like the plague for the following months). With a little pang of regret at the coins he’d just wasted needlessly, he turned his back on Jaskier’s rowdy audience and made for the exit.

Before he could reach the door though, a small vibration against his chest made him freeze in his tracks. His hand flew up to grab at his medallion instinctively, feeling the slight hum against his palm.

“Fuck,” he cursed aloud, paying no mind to the offended look the bar wench shot at him for the indiscretion.

He had bigger things to worry about, like how apparently there was a monster in the vicinity. And the vicinity included _Jaskier_. He couldn’t leave now.

_Fuck._

He found a table in an obscure corner of the tavern that allowed him to keep a good view of the room while remaining somewhat out of sight and settled in for the rest of the show.

* * *

Jaskier played for a good few hours more, capitalizing on the drunken men that grew animated and looser with their coin the coarser the songs were. It wasn’t until a few started to nod off from the ale and the innkeeper put away the tankards, declaring the tavern closed for the night, that the bard finally put down the lute.

Some of the patrons started heading upstairs, while others exited the tavern to return to their homes, but Geralt remained at his table, finally pulling his hood back. The innkeeper and the bar wench that had started cleaning up the room gave him some funny looks, but he paid them no mind.

Jaskier had crouched down next to his lute case and was now collecting his earnings. It looked like it had been a quite lucrative night, going by the satisfied look on his face.

The bard straightened, throwing the lute case over his shoulder as he got ready to make his exit. Before he could though, his eyes caught Geralt’s and he stiffened immediately, the pleased smile dying on his lips. He stood there paused for a second, before something that looked like resolve took over his face and he marched over to the Witcher’s table. Geralt braced himself for the conversation to come, it would definitely not be a very pleasant one.

“Geralt,” Jaskier acknowledged as he came to a stop in front of him, shreds of ice slipping into his voice. “What brings you around these parts?”

Geralt took him in, the bard looked mostly the same as he had when they’d last seen each other all those months ago, aside from the obvious hostility in his voice and displeased expression. The scene looked eerily reminiscent of their first meeting though, he noted with remorse.

“Kikimora,” Geralt simply grunted out, never one for much words. The weight on his chest was also making it difficult for him to talk.

The scarcity of the response seemed to annoy the bard however, who huffed his distaste.

“I see,” Jaskier paused, his eyes searching the Witcher’s face over for something. When he’d apparently failed to find it, his expression turned steely. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

He made to leave, turning his back on Geralt, but before he could get very far the older man called out to him.

“Wait.”

The bard halted in his departure, taking a few moments to turn around. The defeated look on his face when he did took Geralt by surprise. The ensuing silence stretched on for longer than was comfortable, until the Witcher remembered that he was probably supposed to say something now.

“You have to leave,” Geralt blurted out, before internally cringing at how blunt he’d come across.

The bard’s outrage at Geralt’s request was palpable from a distance. Jaskier opened and closed his mouth a few times in incredulity.

“ _Excuse me?_ ” he finally spat out, eyes flaming with uncontained rage. “Where do you get off on coming here and tellin—”

“There’s a monster,” the Witcher cut him off before he could start in on his tirade. “Another one. More dangerous. It’s somewhere in town but I don’t know where, so I need you to leave.”

If looks could kill, Geralt would be six feet under right now.

“Well I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we haven’t exactly been chumming it along lately, _Geralt_. I’m not your responsibility,” Jaskier all but growled. “Nor was I ever. I can take care of myself.”

Geralt couldn’t help his dubious look at the bard’s last statement, which in retrospect was a bad move, as it made the younger man’s anger grow tenfold. Before they could continue the argument though, Jaskier stormed off past him.

As he made his way towards the bar wench, the bard's enraged expression melted away to the flirty smirk Geralt had seen him don plenty of times, whenever they’d stop in a town long enough for the idiot to charm himself into the local mayor’s daughter or wife’s undergarments.

Geralt glowered at him as the bard started sweet-talking the wench, who seemed very susceptive to his advances. The younger man kept sending challenging glares in his direction though, as if daring him to intervene at any moment and haul his stupid arse out of town. Geralt had half a mind to do so, but he kept an iron tight grip on the wooden table as a means of venting out his frustration instead.

The girl did shoot a puzzled look the Witcher’s way, when she noticed the silent stand off the two men were having, but the bard was apparently able to talk her out of further inquiry. 

With one last vindictive smirk shot his way, Jaskier headed upstairs with the wench in tow, who was giggling like a loon.

Geralt heard a small crack and looked down at the table in surprise, where a long fracture now ran along from one side to the other where his hands gripped it. He released the table in bewilderment, staring at the splinters embedded in his fingers.

The innkeeper was now watching him with suspicion, so Geralt took that as his leave. He needed to at least try to get some sleep, he had a monster to hunt – since Jaskier was so adamant to do the exact opposite of everything the Witcher asked, it looked like he’d have to stay in town a bit longer and make sure the idiot didn’t get himself killed. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a beta! Thank you to the lovely martistarfighter for beta'ing this chapter!
> 
> Btw just a little note I wanted to share: as I am writing this from Geralt’s point of view, and he’s an emotional constipated idiot, I usually try to avoid naming feelings, relying on descriptions instead.

Geralt sat up on the hay stuffed mattress, giving up all pretense of sleep. The first few rays of sun heralding dawn were already peeking through the closed shutters of the room.

With a huff of frustration, he stood up and walked over to the heap of armor he’d left on the floor the night before. Undoubtedly another failure in the practice of good manners Jaskier would have gotten on his case about. Ironically enough, the respite from the admonishment proved not to be as satisfying as he once would’ve thought it to be.

He made quick work of putting the garments on, slinging his sword over one shoulder to strap onto his back when he was done.

The plan for the day was to pay a visit to the mayor’s castle, in an attempt to gather information on the nature of the creature who plagued the townspeople. With a route in mind, he set off towards the stables.

Walking through the hall of the bedchambers, he couldn’t help throwing a glance in the direction of the bard’s room. The door was still shut, and no sounds were audible from inside, so the younger man was likely still asleep.

Jaskier had never been a particularly agreeable early riser, the foul mood usually only abating slightly after he’d eaten some breakfast (and also depending on the medium Geralt had chosen to wake him with). It had become a sort of amusing hobby to find newer creative ways to wake him, if only to see the ~~adorable~~ annoyed scowl on the bard’s face as he tried to plot his revenge (that ultimately failed).

He entered the stables, being greeted by Roach with a nicker as he grabbed her saddle and bridle from the rack. A few horses snorted in protest from the early disturbance as he made his way across the shed to saddle the mare up, but Roach was used to riding off at all hours of the night with him, so her complaints had long since died out.

Once he was ready, he led Roach out onto the dirt road, where the first signs of activity were emerging. A few merchants were seen carrying their products to the daily market and a couple of washerwomen walked leisurely alongside each other as they made idle chatter, barely sparing the Witcher a second look.

He climbed up on the saddle and set off for the castle.

* * *

Geralt was drained. He had spent most of the day questioning the townspeople about the odd happenings, and that amount of interaction with humans was exhausting at best (and usually something he steered clear of). He never took on a job that would require this much prior investigation on principle, but as things were, a _certain_ infuriating bard had forced his hand by refusing to step out of harm’s way. Idiot.

The initial visit to the mayor’s castle had been uneventful. The building itself wasn’t very impressive, a reflection of the modest town it represented, and the single guard let him in without much dawdling once he’d explained the reasoning for wanting an audience with the man.

The mayor, a burly man of short stature that smelled of lemons and sour milk, had been apprehensive of the Witcher, but he’d revealed that there had been multiple disappearances in the last few months. He’d also promised a hefty reward if Geralt was able to bring the culprit to justice, aside from the coin he’d lent in advance so that he could afford his continued stay.

So, he’d spent the rest of the day speaking to the relatives and friends of the missing people, to try and find out where they’d been disappearing from. Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be much of a pattern. A few had last been seen at the market, others at the tavern, some had left their homes in the morning never to be seen again.

This led the Witcher to conclude that the creature was picking out its targets in the open, most likely making it a humanoid that could easily get by unnoticed. Out of that list, the probable options were either a doppler or therianthrope gone rogue or a form of vampire.

When he made it back to the inn, dusk had set in. 

He headed inside after leaving Roach in the stable, but noticed something was off even before stepping through the front door. While the buzz of animated conversations and loud laughter characteristic of taverns was still present, there was no music. Jaskier wasn’t playing tonight.

His gut instinct to realizing the bard might have listened to him after all and left was a striking sinking sensation in his stomach accompanied by an unpleasant feeling of having lost something important. His second instinct was to push those feelings back to wherever they came from, because they had no right to emerge in the first place. He should feel relieved if the younger man had left, it meant he was far away from the Witcher and any danger he might entail.

He pushed forward, stepping inside the tavern and searching the room for the innkeeper, intending on inquiring about the whereabouts of the bard. He found the man at his usual spot behind the bar, pouring drinks into a few mugs as the wench from the day before ran a dirty rag through the counter. As he approached the bar the innkeeper’s eyes flew up to meet him.

“Where is the bard that was playing last night?” He asked the man whose brows drew down into a scowl at the query.

“That’s what I’d like to know! That slimy weasel was renting a room at a quarter price in exchange for nightly entertainment,” the innkeeper snarled, angrily gesturing towards the back of the room where Jaskier had played the night before. “If you two come across, tell him he better pay up full price or get the fuck out. I ain’t running a charity.”

The man looked like he had a few more choice words to say about the bard, but Geralt’s answering frown was enough to make him rethink his decision.

With a parting growl at the innkeeper, who looked rather subdued now, Geralt turned his back and headed upstairs.

Jaskier’s door remained closed and Geralt couldn’t hear any movement from inside, but he still knocked to be sure. When no response came after a reasonable amount of time, he reached for the handle, finding the door unlocked.

The first thing that registered when he opened the door was the flowery scent his enhanced sense of smell attributed to Jaskier. It was already pretty faded, which meant the bard hadn’t been there in a while, probably the whole day. Something in the odor gave him pause though, he breathed in deeply, trying to discern the reason.

When it hit him, he freezed, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach. Beneath the pleasant odor of orange blossoms and chamomile, he found the faintest traces of a sharp metallic tinge he knew all too well. _Jaskier’s blood._

His mind immediately kicked into overdrive, alarm and trepidation sharpening his senses as he took in the scene. 

The room looked to be in order. The bed was made, and nothing seemed out of place, but the lute case sat innocently on the floor by the window. That immediately raised a red flag, Jaskier _would never_ leave his lute behind. The blasted thing was short of glued to his side. Geralt should know, he’d tried to hide it countless times when Jaskier’s constant singing got on his nerves, but it had never seemed to stick for long. The instrument never left the bard’s sight. And even though the room looked clean, now that he’d detected it, the acrid tang of blood was unmistakable.

He needed to find out where the hell Jaskier was, and what he’d gotten himself into this time.

He thought back to when he’d last seen the bard, recalling their tense discussion. Then he remembered the last person he’d seen in the younger man’s company and realized that even though he’d been sure of what would have transpired there the night before, the distinctive scent of sex was suspiciously absent.

With a frown, he turned around and stormed back downstairs.

His sudden furious appearance in the lively room earned him a few surprised and anxious looks from the patrons. A few started whispering about the angry Witcher, but he ignored them in favor of locating the wench. He found her across the room, wiping down a table.

“ _You,”_ Great roared at the girl, approaching her in five swift steps.

The wench startled, eyes flying up and widening in surprise as she realized she was the recipient of his rage. The sour tang of fear spreaded throughout the room as the girl cowered away from the angry Witcher suddenly in her face.

“Wh- I-” the wench stammered, panic evident in her face.

All the conversation in the room had died down at that point, the men having elected to watch the alteration that had broken out between the Witcher and the bar wench with interest.

“The bard you shared the night with,” Geralt enunciated slowly as a few of the men watching the exchange began snickering. “Where is he?”

The girl turned beet red and a flash of indignation crossed her face at his words, but she apparently thought better of irritating the Witcher further.

“I don’t know!” she squeaked, a new surge of fear hitting his nostrils. “He stayed in his chambers when I left!”

He glared at her a few moments more, but, when it seemed she wouldn’t be volunteering any additional information, he let out a final huff of frustration and backed away.

“Point me to the town mage,” he ordered, scowl still firmly set on his face.

The bar wench looked relieved at the attention being deflected from her nighttime endeavors and was quick to give him directions, voice still wavering.

With a plan already taking root in his mind, he turned his back on the girl with a grunt. The men who were watching the altercation with overt curiosity quickly averted their eyes from the Witcher as he passed by them.

He hastily made his way upstairs to Jaskier’s room so he could retrieve the younger man’s lute before heading to the stables, case firmly secured on his back.

Once he realized Jaskier had probably joined the group of people who’d fallen victim to whatever creature roamed the town (which was the thing he’d stayed in town to prevent in the first place, _damn it_ ), he’d started thinking of ways to find the bard. The quicker one was to ask a sorcerer to perform a tracking spell, so he set off towards the mage’s house, prepared to offer up anything that was required of him in payment for the favor requested.

He rode swiftly, urging Roach to maintain a fast canter throughout the entire journey. The quicker he could find the bard, the less likely it would be for him to be grievously injured ~~or dead~~.

When he reached the location the bar wench had directed him to, he was a bit surprised by what he found. The building was more of a manor than the simple house of a lowly mage he’d expected, looking out of place in the little niche of the town it found itself in. The architecture spoke volumes to the importance and prowess of the sorcerer that inhabited the residence.

Geralt found himself growing uneasy, a higher-ranking sorcerer would be sure to drive a much harder bargain for granting favors to commoners, no matter how simple the spell. This complicated things.

He tied Roach to the outside post and headed inside the house, wondering why such a seemingly eminent mage would be held up in a town like this.

He passed through the imposing front arch that overcast the marble front door, which slid open for him of its own accord, the end-product of magic no doubt. The sorcerer seemed to already be aware of his presence in the premises, at least he wasn’t being turned away yet.

He stepped inside the somber hall but before he could get too far, a familiar scent stopped him dead in his tracks for the second time that night.

_Lilac and Gooseberries._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Next up on two bumbling idiots who need pre-school lessons on how to express their feelings:  
> Geralt may be a good compartmentalizer, but Yennefer is 'bout to wreak havoc on those boxes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks to my beta martistarfighter for beta'ing this chapter!! <3
> 
> The whump has arrived!!  
> I repeat, THE WHUMP IS HERE.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” a familiar silky voice drawled from behind him.

He turned around, laying eyes on the source of the scent that had sparked his attention the minute he’d walked through the door. The sorceress stood at the opposite end of the hall in all her glory, flickering candlelight casting a halo of light around her frame. A hint of a teasing smile was playing at the corners of her lips.

“Yennefer,” He acknowledged, a shred of surprise involuntarily carrying through his tone.

She made his way over to him in slow confident strides, the tail of the sleek dark dress she had chosen to don lightly grazing the floor behind her as she walked. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” she asked, coming to a stop a few steps away from the Witcher, as her eyes roamed over his figure, considering. “Something to do with that pet bard who follows you around like a lost pup, I suspect. Or have you decided to take up the profession yourself?”

She tilted her head slightly in an inquiring gesture as if punctuating her words. He frowned in confusion at her last question, making her stare pointedly at the lute case still strapped onto his back. He glanced at the instrument, remembering the reason why he’d come here before getting sidetracked by the unexpected appearance of the mage.

“I need a tracking spell,” he revealed, sliding the lute case to his front in order to illustrate his point.

She eyed the lute, looking back up to regard the Witcher as he awaited her response after a few seconds.

“Have you misplaced your stray?” she questioned, a single eyebrow drawing up in an expression of amusement.

He grunted in response, averting his eyes from hers as he grew uneasy at the scrutiny.

“Come now, I am not as well versed on the dialect of boorish growls as the company you so like to keep,” she remarked, the corners of her lips tugging upwards in a smirk.

The ensuing silence and sullen frown on the Witcher’s face prompted the sorceress to roll her eyes.

“ _Use your words,_ Geralt.” She clarified, patience wearing thin on her voice.

He sighed in a show of frustration, before caving and looking up to face her.

“He’s missing,” he admitted tersely, feeling as if a big weight inside him had dropped and dragged his insides along in its uncontrolled descent, as he finally reflected on the implications of that statement.

He hadn’t let himself think much about it during the journey here, but now that his mind had been given free roam over such notions, he couldn’t stop it. He could feel dread growing immense in the pit of his stomach, turning it to lead, and elevating his heart rate until his heart beat almost synchronous with that of a normal man’s.

Her expression shifted to adopt a slightly gentler look as she observed him, likely sensing his internal emotional turmoil even through his impassive features.

“Come,” She simply said as she turned around in a graceful swoop, the ribbons of her dress fluttering about in the air with the movement.

He followed after her, keeping his stride a few steps behind as they crossed the marble archways and dark halls of the manor. They finally came to a stop when they reached an ornately decorated room where large hefty looking tapestries hung from the walls and velvety red carpets adorned the floors. A massive four poster canopy bed rested at the back of the room.

“Still leading the simple life, I see,” he sarcastically remarked from where he stood paused in the entrance, taking in the scene.

She ignored him in favor of crossing the room and procuring something in an old chest of drawers. After a few moments of looking around, she retrieved a jar of petals and some sort of herbs, setting them atop the dresser. He watched her in silence as the sorceress turned around and walked over to another cabinet, recovering a mortar and pestle from it.

“So, where were you at the time of disappearance of our dearest bard?” Yennefer asked as she laid the ingredients on the surface of a working table.

“I was out,” he offered simply, reluctant to indulge in conversation with the witch, as he knew she would prod at him until he confessed something he didn’t mean to. “Inquiring about a monster.”

“He wasn’t with you?” she questioned, a tinge of surprise audible on her tone as she picked up the pestle to start grinding the herbs.

“We…” he trailed off, the pregnant pause making Yen temporarily pause in her motions so she could direct an expectant look his way. “… don’t travel together anymore.”

“Why ever not?” she asked with a puzzled frown, moving to dump a handful of flour petals in a water filled pot.

He was quiet for a moment, deliberating on what to say as he observed the sorceress relocate the pot to the stove. With a flick of her wrist, a small flame ignited to boil the concoction.

“We had a falling out,” he finally settled on, making the witch turn to shoot him a knowing look.

“You mean you drove him away,” she concluded matter-of-factly, causing him to bristle at being read so easily.

“He wasn’t safe with me.” He mumbled, studying a tapestry as an excuse to avoid locking eyes with the perceptive woman.

“Apparently he wasn’t safe without you either,” she retorted, gesturing at where the tracking spell ingredients laid on the table with apparent irritation. She sighed. “It’s a dangerous world, Geralt. Trouble will find you no matter where you go or who you’re with.”

He scowled, refusing to speak up as he tried to cling to the shreds of the rationale he’d built up to wall off and excuse his feelings towards the bard. His success was debatable, with doubt starting to rear its ugly behind the barriers he’d erected.

“Don’t be so deliberately moronic. It doesn’t become you,” the sorceress chided at his petulant silence with a roll of her eyes.

He looked up at her, the doubt he was doing his best to mitigate (and failing) likely showing on his face, judging by the way Yennefer’s features softened.

“Talk to him. Apologize. While you still can,” she urged. “You’ll regret it if you don’t, trust me.”

The contents of the pan started bubbling behind them, dispelling the moment. She turned, removing the pot from the stove and bringing it to the table.

“Rhododendron flower essence,” she explained as she poured the contents of the pot through a sieve. “For something forsaken.”

He grunted in acknowledgement, the hints of a knot forming on his throat at her words. He hadn’t meant to _forsake_ Jaskier, _gods_.

Yennefer mixed the flower essence with the herb mixture she’d produced in the mortar, stirring the concoction together and creating a rosewood colored pigment.

“Go fetch me eight candles from that shelf,” she requested, pointing to indicate the rack’s location, before picking up the bowl with the paint she’d created and heading to the center of the room.

He placed the lute case atop the table and walked over to grab her the candles. When he turned back around, the sorceress was kneeling on the floor with the bowl resting next to her, using the paint to draw a windrose on the floorboards with her fingers.

He walked over, watching her finish the outline. When she was done, she turned to him and extended her hand.

“Give them here.”

He handed her the candles one by one, as she placed them in the 8 outstretching points of the windrose. When she’d distributed them through all the cardinal directions, she stood, putting the bowl aside.

“Now for something reclaimed,” she announced, looking at him expectantly.

He gathered the case from the table, opening it and retrieving the lute. With the instrument now in his hands, he hesitated for a second, thinking about how distraught the bard would be over the fate of his pride and joy. An angry bard was better than a dead one though, and the lute was Geralt’s best shot at a successful accurate tracking spell.

With a silent vow to buy Jaskier a new one once the younger man was safe from harm, the Witcher handed the instrument over to Yennefer, who looked amused.

Taking it from his hands, she laid the lute in the center of the windrose before stepping back and lighting the candles with another flick of her wrist. With everything now prepared, the sorceress spread her arms, closed her eyes and started to chant in elder speech, _“caillte ò glosse, darganfuwyd gan minne.”_

At her words _,_ a strange wind started to pick up in the room, but instead of putting out the candles, the flames suddenly soared and formed huge spirals of fire that licked at the ceiling. 

The fire started circling the lute in an intricate dance, before spreading and engulfing the instrument. As it caught on fire, Yennefer halted her chanting, head shooting up and breath hitching as her eyes shot open and turned hauntingly blank.

In a matter of moments, the fire had been extinguished as quickly as it had come into being and the witch’s head dropped, as if it was being held up by a spring that had abruptly snapped under tension.

“Did you find him?” he asked, approaching the sorceress who was panting slightly, worn out from the spell.

“Yeah,” she replied, allowing him to finally release the breath he had unconsciously been holding. “Come on, I’ll portal you there.”

They headed back outside at a quick pace. Once they’d reached the front yard, Geralt walked over to where he’d tied Roach to a post as the sorceress prepared to open the portal.

Leading Roach by her bridle, he approached the woman as the dirt and dust from the road started to tremble on the ground and then rose in the air, floating before suddenly being caught in a forming vortex of air. The whirlwind enlarged, a rabbit hole in space that distorted reality itself.

Roach neighed in nervousness at the sight, and the Witcher gave her a gentle tap on the neck in reassurance and sympathy. He hated portals too, but time was of the essence.

“This is the closest I can get you. Follow the stream up north of the hill, you’ll find him at the end,” Yennefer instructed, signaling him to go through the gateway. “Good luck.”

With a nod of gratefulness to the sorceress, Geralt led Roach through the portal.

A dense forest greeted him on the other side, tall trees stretching as far as the eye could see in every direction he looked. The stream wasn’t in sight, but he focused his hearing and identified the sound of running water in the distance.

Climbing up on Roach’s saddle, he took off towards the source of the noise, going as fast as he could without risking the mare crashing into passing trees. He soon found the stream and continued his journey upwards, now flanked by the small river.

He’d been galloping for a while when it hit him, the smell of decaying bodies. He pulled on the reins by instinct, making Roach skid to a stop. Terror gripped him then, twisting his insides and coursing through his veins, as if they’d been injected with ice.

This wasn’t a place where monsters dragged their victims off to imprison for days at a time so they could store them for posterior meals. It was a mass grave, which meant the monsters did not feed on flesh.

It had to be vampires, and, judging by the strength of the stench, they were feeding at a very accelerated and sloppy rate, which would make them multiple and young. This greatly decreased Jaskier’s odds of even being alive, given the victims were being dealt with in such a quick and fatal fashion. Drained for everything they had and on to the next.

 _Oh gods,_ Jaskier couldn’t _be dead._

With his heart in his throat, Geralt dismounted and drew his silver word from where it was strapped onto Roach’s saddlebag before venturing deeper in the forest, on the scent’s trail. He didn’t bother tying the mare up to a tree, for it would be much safer for her to be allowed to flee if any creature happened to come across her. She was loyal enough that she would remain in the same place if not directly disturbed by the events that transpired.

He tracked the stream up the mountain, guided by his sense of smell, until he came across a cave where the stench increased tenfold in its foulness. He walked over to where the entrance stood in a rocky wall about twenty feet up from the ground, which was littered by shapes he identified as maimed dismembered limbs upon closer inspection.

None of this was boding well, he noted with growing dread, heart beating more rapidly than he’d ever remembered feeling it before.

Setting his jaw, he grabbed onto a rock ledge and started the climb up the bouldered wall. 

When he reached the top, he hauled himself over the edge, fighting the urge to breathe through his mouth in order to avoid the putrid odor. He needed to be able to recognize Jaskier’s scent, and judging from the look of the corpses outside, it might… be the only way to identify him. His stomach turned at the thought, a fire of desperation roaring with the force of a thousand suns that punched the breath out of lungs and brought moisture to his eyes.

There was a trail of bodies as he wandered inside the cavern, a macabre display of death and suffering which wouldn’t normally faze him. Now though, he searched every lifeless face for familiar crystal blue eyes, terrified to find them staring back at him.

He froze in his tracks when he smelled it. Orange blossoms and chamomile, beneath the stench of rotting corpses and other foul things he didn’t care to label.

Jolting back into action, the Witcher quickened his pace as his eyes adapted to the dark. The adrenaline was proving to be a good stimulant for his enhanced senses, making everything all the more sharp and intense as he frantically searched the cave for movement.

Raspy noises reached his heightened hearing and he raised his sword on impulse, all but racing towards the tunnel the sounds had radiated from. At the end of it, he reached a wide room with more remains scattered across the stone floor, but the three figures leaning over a fourth prone shape were the thing that caught his attention.

The creatures quickly sensed his presence, and with a sickly squelching sound they released their victim and turned around to snarl at him in alarm, blood coating their fangs. Bruxae, infants from the size of them.

That would make the fight easier, bruxa babes hadn’t yet fully developed their vocal cords, so they were unable to attain the high frequencies that granted adult screams their noxious capabilities. And if the mother had already dropped the meal off, it was unlikely she’d return until the next day or two.

He looked dumbly at the motionless form on the floor then, the body the bruxae were feeding on. He saw the silky blue jacket with the puff sleeves, the pants to match, the mop of brown hair. He saw but he refused to understand. Refused until he smelled it and knew it to be true. It was _Jaskier_.

With an enraged roar, Geralt charged towards the creatures, beasts. He would kill them, every last one of them. He would _tear them to pieces_.

They screeched, drooling blood – _Jaskier’s blood_ – onto the floor, and pounced, meeting the Witcher halfway in his rabid attack.

One threw itself at his neck and with a swift slash of his sword, he sliced its throat before the blow could land and sidestepped to dodge the other two.

The bruxa whose throat he’d slashed gurgled wetly from behind him, clawing at its throat. At this, the other two howled in fury and threw themselves at the man once more. He managed to shove off one of them but the other caught him in the leg, claws carving the meat of his thigh.

The sting made him grunt, but he quickly shook the creature off and drove his sword through its chest, turning his back on the third bruxa who he’d assumed was too winded to pounce on him. That proved to be a bad call, as the monster lunged at his back and sank its nails into his torso, breaking through the armor.

He twirled in an attempt to shake it off, but it bit at his shoulder, piercing the skin. With a growl, Geralt slammed into the cave wall backwards, crushing the creature who released its hold on the Witcher with a yelp.

He pushed off the surface, the bruxa falling to the floor behind him, and he turned around to plunge the sword into the monster’s skull. The blade thrust through the bone, making a sick wet crack before hitting the ground on the other side. With a sense of satisfaction, he ripped the blade out and watched as blood and brain matter poured out from the gaping hole.

Geralt stood there for a few moments, shoulders heaving as he panted, numb from the adrenaline. Then he turned to look over at Jaskier’s still form on the floor, too still (the bard was energy personified, a constant state of action), before sheathing his sword and limping over to him.

Dread overrode his senses, it was all he could feel, all he could smell, see, hear. _Jaskier_ , what if he was…

His skin had taken up such a bluish tinge, he numbly noted as he kneeled beside him, reaching trembling hands out to gently tug on his body and turn him on his back. He rolled the bard onto his lap, cradling his head and becoming alarmed at how cold and clammy his skin felt. Spots of blood marked his neck and wrists, where the bruxae had used their fangs to perforate veins and lap up the resulting blood.

Then he noticed the rapid eye movement beneath Jaskier’s closed eyelids, and the sound of a fluttering unsteady breath reached his ears. It was like he could breathe himself for the first time since he’d discovered the bard was missing. _He was alive._ He breathed out a shaky relieved breath, that turned into a few compulsive hoarse chuckles.

Once he calmed down a bit from his frenzied state of relief, he took in Jaskier’s appearance with a closer look. A cold sweat dampened his face and neck, and while his entire skin had a blue hue, the color was most intense on his lips. He could feel the bard’s heart beating impossibly fast from where his hand rested on his chest, and his breathing was shallow and also too rapid.

Jaskier might not be dead yet, but he would be soon unless Geralt could get him to a healer, _fast_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re wondering what Yennefer started chanting, it’s something along the lines of ‘Lost to sight, found by heart’ in bits of elder speech I could scrounge up with some research (and some improvisation).
> 
> Also, according to my calculations, this work should be about 6 chapters long, but I'm not sure yet (and I suck at dividing chapters equally) so, I don't want to commit to the number yet xD


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt races Jaskier to a healer and does some caretaking :3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to my beta martistarfighter as usual!! <3

As gently as he could, Geralt wrapped his arms around the form of the unconscious bard and positioned him into a bridal carry. He tried to stand up with the younger man in his  hold , but it proved to be a more difficult task than he’d expected. The leg the creature had clawed at stung something fierce at being forced to support the extra weight, and his hurt shoulder immediately protested at the movement.

He stilled, catching his breath and letting out a few expletives. He’d been so out of it with fear and rage earlier that he’d forgotten to drink or bring any potions with him, a mistake he was heartily paying for now. All he had been able to think about was getting to Jaskier and making sure he was still alive, all other thoughts had been inconsequential.

This was the reason Witchers were encouraged to forgo all human or other kinds of connections in the first place. Caring made you desperate and irrational, which ultimately only served to get you killed. It was the most basic of rules, and Geralt had gone and fucked it up. Figures.

It was like he was doomed to repeat the same mistakes over and over again. He tried to stay out of people’s business unless it involved an actual contract, but somehow, inevitably, their business found him, every time.

He thought back to that time Jaskier had helped him bathe and tended to his selkiemore inflicted wounds in that backwater inn, and his words, ‘ _ Yes, yes, yes. You never get involved. Except, you actually do. All of the time.’  _ He’d scowled at the time, exactly because, even as he heard it, he recognized the undeniable truth in the statement.

Jaskier always seemed to have a deeper understanding of the Witcher than he was given credit for, calling Geralt out at the most haphazard of times. And although infrequent, the unexpected bouts of perceptiveness had endeared the bard to the Witcher even more, even if he’d never admitted to it.

Setting his jaw, Geralt tried standing up again, this time ignoring the resulting sharp aches the motion entailed. He didn’t care what it took to get Jaskier to safety, it seemed  _ destiny  _ or whatever crap people chose to believe in had granted the Witcher a second chance, and he wasn’t about to screw it up this time. Jaskier was alive and he was going to stay that way, if Geralt had any say in it.

With Jaskier firmly secured in his arms, head tucked under his chin, Geralt limped over to the cave entrance. The bard didn’t stir once during the whole trek, remaining a cold unresponsive weight in his arms, much to the Witcher’s grave concern.

Reaching the edge of the cave, Geralt looked down, pondering. He’d have to climb down with the younger in his arms, there was no other way.

He removed his gloves and chucked them to the side, he’d need the extra advantage in grip if he was to make the climb one handed.

Shifting Jaskier so he could hold him with only his uninjured arm, the Witcher set about making his painstakingly slow way down. It wasn’t easy, his wounded shoulder protested at having to hold both their weights up and the pointed rocks he was forced to grab onto for leverage were not very appropriate hand holds, sharp edges cutting deep into his palm. Had he not the rigorous training every Witcher went through, he’d probably have been sprawled on the ground below a long time ago.

As it were, he made it about three quarters of the way down until the blood oozing from the deep cuts in his palm started to make his hold on the rocks slip. His hand slid off the edge he was hanging onto and his injured leg gave out under the weight, making him lose balance and fall backwards. Jaskier’s weight at his front made him pitch  face down , but he managed to turn them around mid-fall, so that the bard would land on him and not the hard ground.

They hit the forest floor with a thump that kicked all the air out of Geralt’s lungs and made his vision white out. He laid there for a few seconds, gasping as he caught his breath and his sight returned. With a groan, he pushed himself up to a sitting position, his head and chest acting up at the movement.

He whistled to Roach, calling her to his side. The mare was a bit far from where they were, but she should be able to hear the noise. Sure enough, after a few minutes, the approaching sound of trotting hooves reached his ears. He was as thankful as he’d ever been in that moment for her loyalty.

Roach walked over to his side, nickering in greeting, and Geralt pushed himself to his feet, bringing Jaskier along.

He carefully slung the bard over the saddle first, climbing up after. Once settled on top of Roach, he pulled the younger man up to a sitting position against his chest, wrapping an arm around his rib cage to keep him upright. With a one-armed hold on the reins, he urged the mare into a fast canter, heading towards the village.

He rode like the wind, in his desperate haste to get Jaskier to a healer, all the while keeping a strained ear on the bard’s feeble heartbeat.

He reached the healer’s house just as dawn was beginning to set in. Dismounting in a frenzy, he gathered an increasingly weaker looking Jaskier into his arms before storming inside the building.

The healer, a scrawny man of fifty summers, was already up, sorting through a few jars on a shelf as the Witcher crashed through his front door. The man startled at the sudden intrusion, dropping a vial that broke at his feet, contents spilling on the floor.

“Help him,” Geralt all but growled at him.

The healer visibly gulped, uneasy at the imposing blood-soaked Witcher suddenly at his doorstep, before glancing down at the inert form in his arms.

“What happened to him?” he inquired, voice trembling slightly in fright.

“Bruxae,” Geralt offered in manner of explanation, moving to gently lay down Jaskier on the working table. “I’ll pay you whatever you want, just save him.”

With a nervous nod, the healer approached the table to inspect the younger man. He laid a hand on the bard’s forehead and examined the bite mark on his neck before moving down to his wrists and humming.

Geralt grew restless as he watched the man simply observe Jaskier, a heavy scowl forming on his face. Thankfully, the healer sensed the Witcher’s impatience and hurried off to mix some herbs together.

Geralt took the opportunity to step closer to Jaskier, pushing the sweat dampened hair away from his forehead. He looked like death warmed over, the sight was truly terrifying. His skin was still very unnaturally blue and clammy, and his eyes moved rapidly under his lids, signaling a restless slumber.

Bruxae were known to worm their way inside their victim’s heads, plaguing them with horrible nightmares to keep them subdued as they drained their blood. A new wave of rage hit him at the thought, and he slightly regretted having killed the bruxae babes so swiftly. He’d just have to take his anger and frustration out on their mother, who he was going to hunt as soon as Jaskier was out of harm’s way.

The healer returned with a liquid elixir in a vial and asked the Witcher to hold Jaskier up so he could tip a portion down the bard’s throat, before scurrying away. Geralt carefully laid the younger man down again, keeping a hand on his shoulder.

The healer came back carrying some bandages and salve and started applying the ointment to the bite marks, taking the time to wrap them afterwards.

Once he was finished tending to the bard, the man turned anxiously to the Witcher, holding out the vial with the concoction he’d given Jaskier.

“You’ll need to give him a bit of this every three hours or so, until it runs out. He should get progressively more conscious and lucid with time, but he’ll need a lot of sleep,” he explained, fidgeting a little. “And you’ll need to keep him warm.”

Geralt nodded and took the vial, pocketing it and retrieving his coin bag to pay the healer. He moved to hand the money over, but, before he could, the man held extra bandages and salve up for him.

Geralt frowned in confusion at the offering, to which the man explained, “For your shoulder, and leg,” with a jerk of his head at the wounds.

Geralt looked at his shoulder, as if realizing the extent of his injuries only now. The gashes that crisscrossed the flesh where the bruxa had dug in its fangs and ripped were deep, reaching far into the muscle itself. His leg wasn’t in much of a better state either, and he seemed to have been dipped in blood and other unsavory things. He probably didn’t smell that great either.

The Witcher grunted his thanks and paid the man, retrieving Jaskier from the table and carrying him outside to where Roach awaited.

Setting Jaskier on top of the mare again, Geralt climbed up after him and rode back to the inn. He was feeling slightly calmer now that the immediate danger had passed. Although he’d scared the town healer out of his wits, the man had come through, and Jaskier was looking better already, much to the Witcher’s great relief.

The ride to the inn was short, the place being only a few blocks away from the healer’s house. Buildings that paid public service usually clustered together at the center of towns for easier access, for which Geralt was very thankful right now.

Leaving his mare in the stables, he carried Jaskier upstairs. As he walked inside the tavern, the atmosphere immediately quietened, his appearance eliciting surprise from the patrons and innkeeper, who all turned to look curiously at the strange sight of a Witcher holding an unconscious bard up to his chest.

Geralt scowled at them, which was apparently intimidating enough to keep them from commenting on the situation at hand. Then, remembering the last conversation he’d had with the innkeeper about Jaskier, and how the other man had seemed eager to throw the bard out on his ass, Geralt directed him a more personal glower. He grunted in satisfaction at the immediate scent of anxiety and distress that arose from the innkeeper and headed upstairs.

He took Jaskier to his room, laying him carefully on the single bed and pulling the flimsy blanket up to the bard’s shoulders.

On second thought, he hurried over to Jaskier’s room, not wanting to leave the bard alone for more than a minute, and fetched that blanket too, bringing it back to his room.

He laid the extra cover on top of Jaskier, tucking the younger man in. The bard was still cold to the touch, he noted with disapproval as he laid a hand on his forehead.

Geralt moved away to start a fire in the small fireplace, hoping it would be enough to warm him up.

With a fire steadily going, he took the blood-soaked garments off, laying them in a heap in a corner out of the way. He’d return to them later and find out what was salvageable.

Picking up the bandages and salve provided by the healer, he started to patch himself up, grunting as the pressure on the injuries made them throb with renewed vigor.

Once he was finished, he settled down on the wooden floor to wait for the next three hours to pass.

* * *

It took five doses for the elixir to run out, during which period the bard regained more of his senses for the brief amounts of time Geralt tried to jostle him awake enough to drink the concoction.

The first time, the bard had hardly shown any signs of lucidity. Geralt had sat down on the small bed next to him and had tried to wake him, first calling out his name and then, when that failed to evoke any response, giving him a slight shake of the shoulders. Jaskier had only scrunched his eyes closed an almost imperceptible bit, but at least it was a sign of awareness.

He settled for merely pouring a small amount of the liquid into Jaskier’s mouth, holding him up long enough for the younger man to swallow the broth.

The following three hours went by uneventfully, he sat on the floor some more, brooding in silence. No one dared to come upstairs and try to find out what the Witcher was up to, although he could hear the intrigued and postulating chatter coming from downstairs.

Jaskier had stirred a few times, but ultimately fell back into a deep slumber, although not a very peaceful one. The hold the bruxa had on his mind seemed to remain intact, as Geralt could smell the bard’s anguish, which made him grow restless himself.

The second time he’d tried to wake Jaskier, the younger man had flinched away from him so abruptly he’d nearly sent himself careening off the bed. Geralt managed to grab a hold on him, preventing him from falling over, but the string of  _ please _ ’s and  _ I’m sorry _ ’s that fell from his lips as he shrank away from the Witcher was enough to make him remove his hand as if he’d been scalded.

After that, Geralt started feeling particularly shitty and tried to handle Jaskier with more care.

It took two more tries (one in which Jaskier’s eyes fluttered open for a few seconds and the intense scent of fear radiated from him as strong as the Witcher had ever scented it) and Geralt’s name to join the list of uttered pleas, for understanding to dawn on the older man.

The trepidation coloring Jaskier’s voice as he muttered the Witcher’s name was palpable. The bard wasn’t flinching away simply because of the general state of agitation caused by the unnatural nightmares, he was scared of  _ Geralt _ specifically.

Realizing what the bruxa had made the younger man dream about, Geralt felt something break in his chest, and then proceeded to punch a hole in the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a sidenote, I am being very liberal with the medicine here, but seeing as this is a fantastical medieval world, I claim the healing powers of magic and solicit a free pass :3 (just, you know, feeding unconscious people any liquids or solids is not ok).


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chaos breaks out at the inn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always a huge thanks to my beta martistarfighter!! <3

Geralt was a hurricane personified, kicking up a storm as he paced furiously in the restrictive confines of the small room. He itched to go hunt the bruxa down, make it pay for what it had done to Jaskier and break the hold it still maintained over him. However, the bard was still out cold on the ratty pallet, and Geralt couldn’t leave him alone in such a vulnerable state.

So, for lack of a better alternative, he paced. The sight resembled a caged animal testing the limits of its enclosure, and he felt the anger and fury grow deep within him like sprouting weeds after a fortnight of heavy rains. He felt a turmoil of confusing emotions, some for which he had no name, and more than he’d ever felt at the same time clawing at the strategically placed walls in his mind, begging to be let out.

His blood sang in its need for vengeance, endless scenarios of how he would make the bruxa meet its end springing up in his mind. He could spill the creature’s guts on the floor and be done with it, but that was too swift a death. He should take his time, deliver death by a thousand cuts and string the thing up to dry. That seemed more befitting of the monster.

Every moment he spent inside that room was driving him further up a wall. The fear that currently marred the previously clean flowery scent of his bard rolled continuously off him in waves, taunting Geralt in its pungency and making him lose his mind to anger and hatred.

He’d already scattered his gear all over the room’s floor, picking out what was still fit for wearing and what was a lost cause. His left shoulder pad was completely ruined, the aged thick leather torn to pieces. His right pant leg wasn’t much better, but it would have to do since he didn’t have any spare armor pants.

He’d already dug up a dagger to present Jaskier with when the younger man was awake enough to be left alone for the night. Geralt had a bruxa to kill, and the longer he stayed in the same spot without hunting it down, the more time the creature had to flee. Although he doubted it would choose to escape when it found the corpses of its children adorning their lair floor. Revenge was a strong motivator, he should know.

He was deeply attuned to all the happenings going on in the vicinity, his senses working on overdrive, so he sensed Yennefer’s presence before she even set foot in the tavern.

The sorceress made her steady way inside the building, up the stairs, down the hall to his room. 

He stilled, a thought forming in his mind. If he could convince Yennefer to watch over Jaskier for a few hours he could head over to the bruxae lair just as dusk set in. If he set off now, he should be able to reach it in time to intercept the monster. He could kill the bruxa mother and finally be done with this.

The door swung open and the strong scent of lilac and gooseberries permeated the room. He didn’t turn, staying where he was facing the pallet with his back to the door. Yennefer knew he was aware of her presence, there was no point. She walked up to him, coming to a pause at his side.

“How is he?” She asked, her voice impenetrable – a fortress in its might, incapable of betraying even the slightest of emotions. It was something he had quite enjoyed about her in the beginning. How so very much like him she was. A kindred spirit.

Now though, now he saw the beauty in difference, uniqueness. In how one could wear their heart on their sleeve and still remain trusting and cheerful. And the way he’d taken it for granted.

He turned to face her, to better gauge her expression. She stared at Jaskier’s sleeping form on the pallet, eyes as inscrutable as her voice. They’d both learn at a very young age to shelter and hide their emotions, as they presented merely weapons that could be used against you at the most inopportune of times.

“He’ll be fine.”

She hummed in response, eyes jumping up to examine the most recent addition to the wall decoration, “Your handiwork, I assume?”

Geralt grunted in return. The hole wasn’t very large thankfully, but he’d probably still have to pay quite a hefty sum in damage costs to the innkeeper. It had been a good outlet at the time though.

Yennefer finally turned to look at him, giving his state of dress a once over. The armor he was sporting must have looked quite pitiful judging from the expression on her face.

“Going somewhere?” She inquired, a single brow arching and lips curling in a hint of amusement.

“I need to go hunt down the bruxa mother.”

“You’re going to leave him alone?” She asked, a bit of surprise coloring her voice at the notion.

She frowned at his silence, before understanding dawned on her and stripped the amused smirk from her lips, replacing it with annoyance.

“You can’t be serious,” Yennefer exclaimed. “Geralt. I am a prime sorceress of Aretuza, I have offered counsel in the courts of powerful kings. I am not a glorified babysitter for you to employ at a moment’s noti—”

“Yen,” he snapped, cutting off her affronted ramble at the start. “Please.”

She stared at him in indignant silence for a few seconds before letting out a huff and relenting.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she muttered to herself, shaking her head in disbelief. “Fine! Go! And don’t get yourself killed in the process or there will be hell to play, and not just from me.”

With a nod he turned his back before the sorceress could change her mind and walked out of the room. As soon as he left, he felt unsureness begin to creep up on him, like a pit in his stomach that grew in size the further away he got from the room.

Not having Jaskier in his direct line of sight was setting his teeth on edge, but the rational part of his brain knew that, even though the sorceress didn’t show overt affection for the bard, she wouldn’t let anything happen to him. So, he clung to that train of thought and tried to shut out the rest. He needed his head clear if he was to hunt this monster.

Ignoring the tavern patrons who were still very interested in the strange happenings (their attention probably piqued anew by the appearance of the mysterious sorceress) he headed to the stabled at a quick pace and retrieved Roach from her stall.

He set off in a fast canter, wanting to reach the bruxae lair before dusk began to set in. He rode swiftly through the town, a few kids stopping in their jumping game to point at the strange Witcher.

He reached the village’s main gates and made a sharp turn to the left, heading deep into the woods. Finding the stream proved easy, as he simply rode north until the tell-tale sound of streaming water reached his ears.

From there it was simple to follow the stream up to the lair where he’d found Jaskier the night before.

* * *

It was night. The sun had set a good two hours ago and still Geralt waited. The bruxa hadn’t shown herself yet, and the Witcher grew impatient and anxious as the minutes trickled by.

It didn’t make any sense, the monster was supposed to have shown up by now with a fresh meal or merely to check on its children. The bruxa was spending the day amongst the villagers but it had to return to its lair at least every two days, and it hadn’t been there yesterday. Something was wrong.

Once again, the disquiet he felt about leaving Jaskier began to grow.

Giving up on fighting the monster that night, Geralt got up from the rock he was sitting on and sheathed his silver sword.

The woods were quiet, the wildlife probably long scared away by the creature lair, so he could hear the most minute sounds from further than normal. Everything was unusually silent still, it rubbed him the wrong way.

He rushed over to where he’d left Roach and climbed up on the saddle, wanting to get back to the inn quickly. The prospect of coming back to an awake Jaskier filled him with slight dread, thinking about the conversation they were overdue to have. The way they left things off… it wasn’t right.

As he passed through the forest at a gallop and approached the village gates, the distant sound of a scuffle reached his ears. His mind immediately went to the bard, even though he’d only left because he knew the other man would be safe. He tensed, feeling Roach grow uneasy underneath him in response. He urged her to go faster, shooting past the town entrance and rushing towards the inn.

As he got closer, the noises of commotion grew louder, and, feeling his blood turn to ice, he pinpointed it to the inn’s tavern.

Just as he reached the building, the unmistakable shrill sound of a bruxa’s scream tore through the air making him wince in pain from the volume and high frequency and startling his mare. The pit in his stomach grew tenfold in size as he jumped off Roach and grabbed her bridle firmly so she wouldn’t run away.

He quickly unsheathed his silver sword and ran towards the entrance, kicking the door in. 

The scene that greeted him made him stop dead in his tracks. He took in a lot of things in a matter of seconds.

The bruxa stood 6 feet away from him, having turned immediately at the sound of the door shooting open. Its eyes were cold and black as two coal stones, and he caught the glimmer of recognition in them as her bloodied fangs were exposed in an enraged snarl.

With a closer look at its face, he recognized the bar wench Jaskier had flirted with two nights ago. He felt his hackles rise and mouth contort into a responding snarl at the creature.

Then he recognized the innkeeper in the motionless shape by its feet, a puddle of blood forming underneath the body from the gaping wound at his throat.

A few other bodies were scattered around the room, he identified a few patrons, and the scrawny healer he’d taken Jaskier to the night before.

Behind the bruxa, towards the back of the room, Yennefer kneeled on the floor, a mess of wooden chairs with broken legs and shards of tankards around her. A fine dark powder dusted the floor by the sorceress and lightly permeated the air. He recognized it by the smell, dimeritium.

He caught Yennefer’s gaze, a wide-eyed look of alarm and horror morphing on her face and then looked to her left, to the stairs, where Jaskier stood, awake and looking at him in shock. He took a moment to feel relief at the bard’s apparent well-being before he turned his eyes slightly down and saw a knife handle sticking out of the bard’s abdomen.

That was the last thing he saw before red washed out everything else and something angry and thirsty for bloodshed took control of his body. He felt himself cast Quen at the bruxa’s sudden intake of air, the shield absorbing the brunt of the piercing scream that resonated as he crossed the distance that separated them with four sure steps, as if he was someone else watching the scene play out from a distance.

He raised his sword and brought it down in a swift powerful arch, the screeching sound stopping abruptly as the monster’s head landed with a soft thud on the floor a few feet away, spraying blood all around.

He stared dumbly at the severed head and the growing puddle of blood, before remembering the reason for his blind rage and shooting his head up to look at Jaskier.

The bard was looking at the handle sticking out of his belly with a dazed and perplexed look on his face, as if he couldn’t understand how there came to be a knife imbedded in him. Geralt shared that confusion.

There was shocked silence for a few seconds, and then the bard raised his hands towards the hilt of the knife.

Geralt’s eyes widened in alarm as he understood what the younger man was about to do and rushed to his side as he bellowed, “NO!”

But it was too late, Jaskier had yanked the knife out by the hilt, letting it fall to the floor with a clatter as he suddenly winced and doubled over with a gasp, finally feeling the pain. The blade was long, large and covered in blood, a butcher’s knife.

Geralt reached his side as Jaskier legs crumbled underneath him and managed to catch him before he could hit the floor. He let out a string of curses, at the bruxa, at Jaskier, at the world. The bard’s hands grabbed at his chest armor as he gasped and grunted, a stain of blood forming and growing on the linen of the white inner shirt he was sporting. 

Yennefer had gotten up and was limping over to them, favoring her left side. 

He carried the younger man to a still standing table, shoving everything on it to the floor with an arm before laying Jaskier down on it. The bard immediately curled on his side, hands flying down to shelter the wound, but Geralt batted them away, replacing them with his own and putting pressure down.

Jaskier whimpered, hands grabbing at Geralt’s arms, trying to push them away.

“Stop,” Geralt chastised, shooting the bard an angry look. A glimmer of fear flashed in the other man’s eyes as he flinched away from the Witcher.

Geralt felt knots form in his stomach, realizing he was probably scaring the younger man further, the fear fueled by whatever nightmares the bruxa had planted on his head.

“You pulled the knife out so now I’ve got to staunch the bleeding,” He explained, eyes searching Jaskier’s terrified one’s and willing him to understand. “Be still.”

Thankfully the bard seemed to calm somewhat after that, hands no longer trying to push Geralt’s away but simply holding on in a firm grip, finding purchase.

“What the fuck happened?” he growled to Yennefer, who’d reached his side.

“The bitch had dimeritium. I couldn’t- I tried to stop the knife, but I could only shift it slightly,” she stammered with labored breath. “Geralt… I can’t heal him.”

He looked sharply up at her, as understanding of their current situation dawned on him. Yennefer’s magic was ruled out because of the dimeritium, and the corpse of the only healer in a twenty miles radius lay on the floor a couple of feet away from them. To make matters worse, Jaskier’s wound wasn’t letting up, the blood was still pouring out the sides, drenching his hands and filling his nostrils with its biting metallic tang.

“Geralt?” a new quavering voice murmured, full of fear and uncertainty. Geralt looked back to the bard, heart breaking on his chest at the look on his face. “Am I- am I going to die?”

The Witcher clenched his jaw, anger coursing through his veins at the prospect being spoken aloud. “No. Shut up,” he growled, hands pressing down harder on the wound as he tried to stem the still flowing blood. “Yennefer,” he barked, “take over for me.”

Yennefer’s hands settled on top of his before he removed them and stepped back, letting the sorceress take his place.

Geralt started unfastening the leather belt that secured his chest piece in place and set it down on the table next to Jaskier’s head.

“Geralt? What are you doing?” Jaskier asked in between short gasps of breath, eyes searching his in confusion. He didn’t answer.

He turned away, stepped over the innkeeper’s corpse and headed over the bar. He leaned over the counter, examining the drinks stored away from sight and spotted a bottle of Vodka. He grabbed it and moved over to the stairs, where the knife still laid on the floor. He picked it up and poured a bit of the alcohol over the blade, washing the blood away.

He could still feel Jaskier’s eyes trained on his back.

Straightening his back, he walked over to the fireplace where a small fire blazed and crackled. Crouching down, he brought the knife over the flames and stayed there a few minutes, letting the fire lick at the blade.

He ignored Jaskier’s attempts to catch his attention and the increasingly frightened questions he was showering Yennefer with, even though every waver of his voice tied an added knot in his stomach.

The sorceress was surprisingly trying her best to soothe the bard, modulating her voice to be as calming as possible and uttering soft reassurances. Had it been any other situation, he would have stopped to admire the sight and even crack some jokes at their expense; as it were, he remained silent, watching the heating blade.

Once it was hot enough to burn, he removed the knife from the fire and, with a deep breath, he steeled himself and turned around, walking over to the table.

Jaskier’s eyes immediately jumped up to him, and then lowered to the knife he was grasping in his hand before flying back up to meet him with a terrified expression. The look made him feel rotten to his core, so Geralt averted his gaze and turned to Yennefer.

“Geralt?” Jaskier faltered, voice rising a few octaves “What are you doing?”

“Hold him down,” Geralt instructed Yennefer, voice low. The sorceress nodded, understanding clear on her face.

Jaskier’s eyes, which had shifted to scan Yennefer’s reaction widened in panic and he started to squirm. The stench of panic was pungent and piercing, invading the room and clinging to every nook and crevice, it was impossible to escape it. The bard’s scared pleas had morphed into indistinct yelps by now and his jerks were growing more frantic, making Yennefer struggle to hold him down.

Geralt sighed, closing his eyes for a second before snapping, “Jaskier!”

The younger man stilled, wide doe eyes jumping to meet his at the sharp sound.

The Witcher’s expression softened at the look, anger melting from his eyes to convey gentleness and soothe the bard, “I won’t let you die, I promise. So, you have to let me do this.”

Jaskier gulped and gave a tentative nod after a few seconds, eyes desperately clinging to his.

Geralt grasped the belt he’d left on the table next to Jaskier, folding it in half two times with his free hand. “Open your mouth,” he instructed as hesitation clouded the bard’s face.

He waited without pressing further though, and the younger man finally cracked his lips open, letting the Witcher place the belt in his mouth. 

Jaskier was still peering at him with that terrified look, even though he wasn’t struggling anymore. Even after everything the Witcher had done to hurt him both intentionally and accidently, despite whatever thoughts the bruxa had planted in his head, and even though he was scared out of his mind, he still trusted Geralt. That realization is what made the Witcher feel sick to his stomach with unworthiness.

He wanted to apologize, but he didn’t know how to. He was never that good with words, or if he was, it was too long ago to remember.

So he laid a hand on the top of Jaskier’s head, sighed and whispered “I’m sorry,” before pressing his lips to his forehead.

A shadow of a kiss engulfed by the inhuman scream that tore from the bard’s throat as the Witcher pressed the knife to his skin and burned it away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhhhh, you thought it was over did you? PSYCHE muahahaha
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don’t pull out any objects you get stabbed with or Geralt of Rivia will materialize and kick your ass into next Tuesday –- don’t do it specifically for this purpose either)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier leave town and have a conversation about their feelings :3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to martistarfighter for helping me edit this fic!! <3

Those few seconds where he pressed the scorching blade to Jaskier’s side were some of the worst that Geralt had ever experienced in his very long existence. He’d killed and hurt a lot of people before, sure, but none so much that he cared about. Because he did care; it wasn’t possible to deny that anymore, if it ever was.

Jaskier had irredeemably and irreversibly wormed his way inside the Witcher’s cold and withered heart, a constant presence that mended and thawed at his icy demeanor.

So whatever pain he was inflicting on the bard? He could feel it tenfold in his core.

The sickening stench of burning flesh hit his nostrils amid Jaskier’s agonized screams, and he fought back a retch. 

He was using his full weight to pin Jaskier down, blanketing the bard as he tried to contain his spasmodic movements to a minimum. The last thing he wanted was for the younger man to injure himself further while they tended to the cut, and Yennefer was still pretty weak from the dimeritium to be of much help in restraining him.

He felt the other side of the blade dig into him a bit as Jaskier thrashed on the table, but he ignored the burn, pressing down harder with his torso to keep the bard still.

Jaskier’s agonized scream rang in his ears for what felt like an eternity, before his eyes rolled back in his head and his body went lax beneath him.

Geralt breathed a sigh of relief; if the bard was unconscious at least he had a respite from the pain.

He leaned back to examine the wound. The skin around it was blistered and red, but blood had mostly stopped gushing from the long dash across his side, so it was probably as good as it was going to get – if he tried to burn the skin further, he’d risk nerve damage.

The belt was slipping down from Jaskier’s mouth, so Geralt grabbed it and chucked it to the side. The bard’s teeth had left too deep of an imprint on it, he’d have to get another.

Geralt stumbled back, nausea finally hitting him with a vengeance as he tossed the knife to the floor and sank into a still standing chair. He didn’t think he could keep standing much longer without either screaming or being sick.

“Geralt?” Yennefer’s voice rang out uncertainly from where she stood supporting herself on the table.

The Witcher managed a noncommittal grunt, but he didn’t have the mind capacity to engage in actual conversation. He just, he didn’t want to  _ think _ right now.

“Geralt, you have to leave,” Yennefer insisted, letting go of the table and limping towards him. “You both have to. The town council will start looking for someone to blame as soon as they get wind of what just happened, and you have a tendency for drawing the short stick on being the sacrificial goat.”

As the sorceress’ words registered, Geralt looked up, numbly taking in the scene. The entire tavern was a whole mess. Broken tables and chairs littered the floor, among the shards from broken tankards and spilled beverages that mixed with the blood on the floor. Dead bodies were scattered all around, about a dozen of them from Geralt’s preliminary evaluation.

“I won’t be able to fend them off like this,” Yennefer reminded him in a remorseful tone of voice.

She was right, as soon as anybody laid eyes on the state of the room, stones would fly. The Witcher had lived through the same situation too many times to expect a different result and he could be many things, but insane wasn’t one of them.

The sorceress laid a hand on his shoulder, stirring him out of his stupor. He looked up at her, noted her concerned expression and nodded, getting to his feet.

He needed to gather his things, take Jaskier and set off. It wouldn’t be long until some daring souls tried to figure out the reason behind the raucousness at the inn.

“I’ll get everything together,” he said, already taking an inventory of everything he’d need in his mind. “Will you stay with him?”

Yennefer nodded. “Be quick.”

He headed to the bar, circling it so he could get to the storage room in the back. There were crates of alcohol bottles, as was to be expected, a few canned food supplies and some first aid items.

Geralt grabbed all of the bandages and another bottle of vodka – he needed enough to wrap the wound right now and to redress it later, and it wasn’t like the owner would be needing them anymore, as he was currently a rotting corpse on the floor just outside.

He exited the room, walking over to where Yennefer still stood by the bard. He handed her the bandages, asking her to wrap the wound while he went and equipped Roach.

The Witcher rushed to the stables, taking the back entrance so as to avoid suspicion. He’d left the mare at the front of the tavern, so he’d inevitably have to go show his face there, but since all his other gear and saddlebags were left in the shed, he headed there first.

He made quick work of gathering his things, swinging the bags over his good shoulder and then walked to the front of the inn, going around it from outside. He had a slight limp from the injury to his leg, which made him move slower than normal, but he managed.

Roach was where he’d left her, and he was quick to equip her with the saddle bags. There were already a couple of people clustered, looking at him with suspicion and whispering amongst themselves. They weren’t approaching him yet though, so he still had time.

He scowled at them, just enough to discourage them from trying anything and hurried back inside. He’d fight back every single person in this town if he had to, but his injuries would slow him down, and he didn’t have just himself to protect.

The sorceress had finished wrapping the burn by the time he walked back inside the tavern, and was sitting in a chair she had pulled over to the bard’s side.

“There are already people outside,” he announced, making Yennefer stand up as he walked over to Jaskier’s other side.

“Then we have to hurry.”

He gathered Jaskier into his arms, heart giving a painful jerk in his chest at the way the bard’s face contorted in an expression of pain.

“You should tell him how you feel,” Yennefer said as he settled Jaskier into a bridal carry. “You can’t possibly still believe that he’d be better off alone.”

“Do we really have to talk about this  _ now _ , Yen?”

“I know you, Geralt,” she said in a firm tone of voice. “Don’t run him off again.”

Geralt stared at her, resolve crumbling under the sorceress’ knowing look.

“He won’t want me around,” he admitted, averting his gaze.

“If you really believe that, you don’t know him very well,” she rolled her eyes. “Just try to have an honest conversation with him, it’ll do wonders for the both of you.”

They headed to the exit, where already more people had started to gather. At their appearance, the whispers rose to a tumult, mistrust and alarm hanging in the air. A few people started to raise their voice, a few odd questions being shouted in their direction.

Yennefer gave him a gentle nudge towards Roach and whispered, “Go. I’ve got this.”

Geralt nodded, rushing to the mare as the sorceress headed into the small crowd, trying to assuage the situation and stall anyone who wanted to go inside the tavern.

Jaskier stirred a little as he was slung over the saddle, but fell back into slumber as Geralt climbed up after him and cradled him against his chest.

A few people had started shouting warnings about the Witcher by then, realizing he was about to fly the coop, so he spurred Roach into a canter. He managed to evade the few hands that shot out to grab onto the mare’s bridle and he rode off towards the town gates, pressing an arm to Jaskier’s front so the younger man wouldn’t be too jostled by the horse’s movements. 

Geralt crossed the gates, breathing out a sigh of relief, and headed out into the woods. He needed to ride far away enough that no possible search parties would find them, and the next town over was too distant, so he had to find a safe remote spot in the forest to camp out on.

He rode along the dirt path for a couple of hours, during which Jaskier came to a few times. The bard was still very dazed though, so Geralt doubted he’d remember anything later.

The Witcher veered off the road then, and rode about fifteen minutes north in a straight line, so he’d be able to make his way back to the road come morning.

Once he came across a small clearing that he deemed acceptable, he brought Roach to a stop and dismounted, being careful to lower Jaskier down to the ground and prop him up against a tree while he set up camp.

Geralt grabbed his bed roll from Roach’s saddle bag and set it down on the ground. He only had the one, since they’d gotten out of there in such a hurry that he didn’t even remember to head up to Jaskier’s room and see if he had a spare. It looked like he’d be sleeping on the grass tonight.

He headed over to the bard again and carried him to the bed roll, setting him down on it and covering him with the woolen blanket. The night was a bit chilly and Jaskier had always been cold sensitive, even though the flimsy flashy clothing he insisted on wearing (despite the Witcher’s abundant critics) did very little to shelter him from cold temperatures.

Gathering some rocks and dry branches, he set them in a circle and started a small fire close to the bard. It should be enough to keep the younger man warm while he went out and caught them some food.

He hadn’t eaten since he’d rescued the bard from the bruxae lair, and Jaskier hadn’t ingested anything bar from the healer’s potion either, they were long overdue for a meal.

The limp was going to slow him down though, he’d need to settle for smaller game.

Geralt grabbed some daggers from the saddlebags and set off into the woods. He didn’t venture very far, he wanted to keep an ear and nose on the bard at all times, since the younger man was still unconscious and alone.

He stood still for a while, holding his breath and closing his eyes while he focused his other senses to discern what animals dwelled in the vicinity. A couple of birds in their nests, a few squirrels in the trees and some hares.

He opened his eyes, fixating on the hares and prowling in their direction. There were a couple of them right up ahead, and he stopped as he neared them, throwing two knives in quick succession. The daggers stayed true to their targets, hitting them with a soft thump as the faint scent of blood rose in the air.

He walked over, gathering the animals and collecting his knives. That should be enough to fill their bellies for the night. He slung them over his shoulder just as the sudden scent of distress and alarm hit his nostrils.

It seemed Jaskier had woken up. He didn’t sense any other presences in the area, so it was likely the bard was just startled at having woken up in a forest alone.

He hurried back to the clearing, breaching the trees and spotting Jaskier sitting up on the bed roll with an expression of alarm. The bard’s head turned immediately as the noise reached his ears, and the scent of fear in the air peaked.

It abated after a few seconds, although it took longer than the normal reaction time for a human. Which meant that Jaskier’s gut instinct to his presence was still fear, Geralt noted with a heavy heart.

Jaskier’s eyes were wide and fixed on him as he approached, and he tried to make himself as unthreatening as possible.

“Hey,” he said for lack of a better opening, putting the rabbits down by the fire.

Jaskier’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed nervously.

“Hey,” he replied, uncertainty palpable in his tone.

“Can I— I need to redress that.” Geralt gestured at the bard’s side, making him look down.

“Oh, yeah. Ok,” he assented.

Geralt nodded and grabbed the fresh bandages and the bottle of vodka he’d had the forethought to bring from the inn, before heading over to Jaskier and sitting down next to him.

He laid the objects down on the bed roll and reached for Jaskier’s side. The bard flinched back instinctively before freezing and correcting himself, turning apologetic eyes to the Witcher.

“Sorry, I keep remembering…” Jaskier trailed off.

“The night terrors,” Geralt finished, making the bard look up at him in surprise.

“Yennefer told you?” Jaskier exclaimed, sounding a bit betrayed by the notion.

“No, I… Bruxae are known for doing that,” he raised his hands up in a pacifying gesture, “and… you talked a bit when you were sleeping.”

“Oh.”

Geralt reached out again, slowly and broadcasting his movements. He started unwrapping the bandage Yennefer had placed, being mindful not to apply pressure to the wound. The dressing fell away, revealing the severely blistered skin underneath it, already scabbing in some points.

Geralt swallowed hard.

“I… don’t want you to be afraid of me,” he admitted in a low voice, gazing at Jaskier's expression.

The bard’s eyes jumped to his.

“I’m not,” he rebutted, lightning fast. Geralt could hear his heart pick up at the lie.

He didn’t want to put Jaskier on the spot, but if there was any hope at repairing their relationship, this was probably something they needed to discuss.

“You are…” he said as gently as he could. If he embarrassed the bard, he might close himself off and any hope of discussing this matter would be shot. “I can smell it.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened as he stared at the Witcher in shock.

“You can— of course you can.” He averted his eyes. “The logical part of my brain keeps telling me I’m being ridiculous, and I know I am. My mind just keeps jumping back to…” he let out a sigh, “give me some time, it’ll pass.”

“Are you sure?” Geralt inquired, a little dubious on the bard’s nonchalant attitude.

Jaskier looked back at him, eyes deeply searching his face for something. The corners of his lips curled slightly in an almost tender smile as he spoke in a soft voice, “Yeah, I am.”

Geralt gave his best attempt at a smile in response, which must have been pitiful, and dropped the subject, grabbing for the alcohol and showing it to the bard. “May I?”

Jaskier looked down at the vodka bottle and nodded, gritting his teeth.

The Witcher unscrewed the cork and tipped the bottle over the burn, letting a bit of the liquid trickle out.

Jaskier didn’t let out any sound, but the way his heartbeat kicked up a notch and the strong wince he couldn’t manage to hide were telling.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said, gulping as he put the bottle down. “For having to do that back at the inn. I—”

“You did what you had to. You saved my life,” Jaskier cut him off. “Thank you.”

Geralt looked away, finding that the intensity in the bard’s eyes unsettled him. He grabbed the fresh bandages and set about rewrapping the burn for something to do.

He could sense Jaskier looking around over him, taking in the scene. “How did we get here, by the way?”

Geralt retold the events that led up to their escape as he finished dressing the wound, doing his best to not prod too much at the blistered skin. Jaskier hummed as he ended the tale, and the Witcher looked up, finding himself staring into the bard’s crystal blue eyes.

The silence dragged on, and Geralt started feeling the compelling need to  _ fidget _ in place. His hands felt inexplicably useless at his sides. He felt lost.

“I brought you food, since we skipped dinner,” he said awkwardly, gesturing towards the hares.

Jaskier broke eye contact, looking to where the rabbits rested by the fire.

“Oh, thank you.”

“I should…” Geralt trailed off. “Huh. Make the food.”

“Yeah, that.”

Geralt got up and walked over to where he’d left the hares, sitting down and beginning to skin them with the dagger he’d used to hunt. He tried to concentrate on the task, but he could still feel Jaskier sneaking looks at him and it was  _ distracting _ .

He finally managed to get the damn rabbits ready and grabbed two thin but stiff branches to grill the meat with.

Jaskier was quiet throughout it all, which was definitely not normal behavior for the bard. He kept glancing at him though, and his face looked heavy in thought.

The smell of the meat being cooked emanated through the air, nauseatingly reminiscent of Jaskier’s skin burning. It turned Geralt’s stomach and erased any and all traces of hunger he could’ve felt.

The hares looked ready after a few minutes, and he removed them from the fire, bringing them over to the bad. 

He handed one to Jaskier, who gave him a quick thanks, and settled down on the bed roll next to him again. Geralt wasn’t hungry at all, still slightly queasy from the smell, but he forced himself to eat to preserve his strength.

They ate in silence for a while, hearing the crickets and the soft crunches of plants being crushed in Roach’s mouth.

They were almost done with their respective meals when Jaskier finally broke the silence. “I’m sorry, for not listening to you. I should have left when you asked,” he blurted out before continuing in a more dejected tone of voice, “and I know you said you didn’t want me around anymore, so—"

Geralt knew exactly where this was going, and this was the thing he urgently needed to fix, so he firmly interrupted the bard before he could get too far in his rambling, “No.”

Jaskier closed his mouth, looking up at him in surprise.

Geralt forced himself to elaborate, “I was angry, and you were there, and… I never should have said what I did.” He looked into Jaskier’s eyes, willing the bard to understand the feelings that he couldn’t put down in words. “I’m sorry.”

“Really?” Jaskier asked, a little doubt carrying through in his voice.

Geralt grunted in affirmative and they settled into silence again. Jaskier started picking at the grass and the Witcher sensed there was something else the bard wanted to ask.

Jaskier glanced at him and Geralt tried his best to make his face look encouraging. Jaskier looked back at the grass.

“Do you regret it though?” a small voice rang out, so soft he would have missed it had he not enhanced hearing.

Geralt studied Jaskier, who was staring very resolutely at the grass needles he was picking.

He waited for the bard to look at him, letting the silence drag on until the younger man’s curiosity won him over and he shot a look at Witcher.

“Yes,” he said firmly once he’d caught Jaskier’s gaze.

“But you didn’t come back.” The bard’s look turned accusing. “I woke up the next morning and you were gone.”

Geralt sighed. Pondered how to answer.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he explained. “That it would be better for you if you stayed away from me.”

Jaskier gave an incredulous snort at that, rolling his eyes. 

“I now realize that you have a penchant for getting in trouble no matter who you’re with.”

A corner of Jaskier’s lips quirked up at the quip and Geralt felt a sense of accomplishment.

“Next time let me choose for myself, ok?”

Geralt turned wide eyes to Jaskier at the implicitness of the word ‘next’, but the soft smile was still planted on the bard’s face. He felt a warm kind of feeling washing over him at the prospect of getting the younger man back by his side, and wasn’t able to suppress the responding smile that formed on his lips.

“Ok,” he replied, voice soft with contentment.

They fell back into comfortable silence, and Geralt took awareness of their proximity. They’d drifted closer during the conversation, and Jaskier’s face was merely a foot away. He could feel faint puffs of air on the skin of his face from the bard’s soft breaths.

He felt as if he was under a spell; the quickening pace of Jaskier’s heart was lulling him into a hypnotic daze as he drowned in the chocolate pools of his eyes. There was a lash on Jaskier’s cheek. Were they leaning closer? It felt like they were leaning closer.

Jaskier’s eyes drifted down to Geralt’s lips and, with an abrupt jump of his heartbeat, he surged forward.

Geralt didn’t really realize what was happening at first. There was a sudden warm pressure against his lips, trying to coax them into a gentle dance, but he was too shocked to get them to move accordingly.

By the time his mind caught up to what was happening, Jaskier was pulling away, a mortified expression on his face. He opened his mouth to start on a ramble no doubt, heart beating erratically in his chest as he prepared to go off on tangents of why what he just did was a spur of the moment thing, and how it didn’t mean anything and they should just forget about it.

Geralt really didn’t want to hear that though, he didn’t want whatever just happened swept under the rug, especially when he kind of wanted it to happen again. So, he tried the more immediate way of shutting Jaskier up.

He leaned forward and captured Jaskier lips in his, swallowing his unspoken words and  doing what he would have done if the bard had just given him more time to process before pulling away.

Jaskier melted against him, plush smooth lips fitting perfectly between his own as they moved together. He cracked his mouth open, just a bit, breathing a moany sigh into the Witcher’s lips, and Geralt prodded at the split with his tongue.

Jaskier’s hands found their way to the Witcher’s hair, clutching and tugging at the white locks, as the older man worked his mouth. He licked at his lips, battling for entrance, and the bard finally granted it to him. Geralt pushed past his lips, and slipped into his mouth meeting the wet, warm and velvety smooth tongue inside.

Jaskier’s tongue was submissive under his, letting him lead the kiss as he molded himself against him. The hands in his hair tugged him insistently closer, slanting their mouths together as Geralt licked at his mouth.

Jaskier started pushing back on his tongue, wrestling back for access into Geralt’s own mouth. His hands started slipping down in the Witcher’s hair, and an elbow landed on the older man’s hurt shoulder.

Geralt was unable to contain the wince that followed, breathing a gasp of pain into Jaskier’s mouth.

Jaskier pulled back, alarmed.

“Geralt?”

“I’m fine, it’s just a flesh wound,” he tried to dissuade Jaskier, but the bard was already yanking at his jerkin, uncovering his shoulder.

“A  _ what _ ?” the bard shrieked. “Geralt, this bandage is  _ soaked _ through.”

“It’ll heal.”

Jaskier was apparently not very pleased with his response, choosing to transmit his incredulity through means of glaring.

“Did you bring more of those bandages?” he inquired, voice determined.

“We need those for you.”

“Don’t be an idiot, we’ll get more in the next town over.” Jaskier slapped at his chest. “Go get them.”

Geralt huffed in protest as Jaskier scooted off his lap, where he’d landed in while they were… vigorously kissing, but complied.

He retrieved the spare bandages from the gear bags and headed back over to the bard, sitting down next to him and taking off his jerkin so the younger man had better access to his shoulder.

Jaskier set about unwrapping the old bandage, tsking under his breath. The hiss of breath once the wrapping fell away did not herald good things for the Witcher. He probably shouldn’t tell him about the leg.

“A  _ flesh wound _ , Geralt?  _ Really _ ?” Jaskier scolded, sounding slightly queasy. “Melitele have mercy on me.”

The bard picked up the previously discarded bottle of vodka and poured a bit over the wound. Geralt hissed and grit his teeth, but pain was a familiar presence in his life, he’d long since gotten used to it.

Jaskier put the bottle aside and grabbed some new bandages to rewrap his shoulder, gentle delicate hands moving over his skin.

When he finished Geralt turned to him. Jaskier’s hands remained on his skin, slipping to his pectorals with the movement.

The bard stared up at the Witcher with a hungry glint in his eyes, palms pressing down and mapping the hard muscle beneath, tracing the length of his scars.

“We should get some sleep.”

“ _ Now _ ?” Jaskier turned an unbelieving look to him.

Geralt responded with a pointed stare, making the bard huff. 

“Fine.”

The younger man settled back into the bed roll, shooting a look at the gear by the campfire as he arrived at the obvious conclusion.

“I can sleep on the ground.” Geralt offered, making Jaskier roll his eyes.

“Don’t be stupid. Get over here.”

Jaskier pushed the woolen blanket back, getting underneath it and shooting Geralt an expectant look. The Witcher crawled over and settled by his side, pulling the quilt over them.

The bed roll didn’t really have the room to accommodate two people, so they laid with their sides pressed uncomfortably together to fit under the blanket.

After a bit of tossing and turning, Geralt huffed in annoyance and turned towards the bard, slipping a hand under his torso and rolling him to his side. He tugged the younger man’s back to his chest, wrapping a hand around his front.

Jaskier tensed a bit with surprise, but relaxed in Geralt’s hold after a few seconds.

“We  _ are _ going to talk about this, right?”

Geralt hummed. “In the morning.”

They fell back into silence after that and Geralt closed his eyes, nosing at Jaskier’s soft hair and breathing in the satisfying, calming scent that was so characteristic of the bard.

He was settling into a comfortable dreamy daze when Jaskier piped up again. “I’m going to write so many ballads about this.”

The Witcher hummed again.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, dragging out the sound. The older man cracked one eye open.

The bard had turned his head so he could shoot him an accusing look over his shoulder.

“Where  _ is _ my lute?”

Ah _ Shit. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw I had the idea of writing this from Jaskier's POV, but I don't know if I'll actually get to it :3  
> Would that be something you guys would like to read? Let me know!

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to come holler at me on tumblr, my url is @lexa-gui


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